Every Rose has Thorns
by Octavia Maxima
Summary: Teen!lock flashback AU. Sherlock saves a girl, but cannot save her memories! They eventually become friends and maybe something more? Sherlock/OC. Rated T for language.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello. I'm very happy to know you're reading this (You have no idea). This is my first fanfic and its probably not very good, but ya know, I'm trying. This is like a prologue to set up the story, so it's a bit short and its in Lestrade's POV. Welp, here it is. Enjoy!**

The train slowly began chugging away on its long journey as Greg Lestrade ran towards it, cursing under his breath. 'Damn' he thought. How the hell was he suppose to get to Leeds for his mother's birthday? He looked around, confused of what to do next, when he did a double take on a dark figure, slumped on a bench. He immediately recognized him as Sherlock Holmes. He quickly jogged over say a quick 'hi' to his college. He clapped his hand on the young man's shoulder and Sherlock's head snapped up towards the DI. His eyes looked troubled.

"Lestrade, I see you missed your train to see your mother. She'll be a bit disappointed, since you missed her last birthday, too."

Lestrade quickly brushed this remark off. He had grown used to his deductions over the years. "Nice to see you too, Sherlock. What are you doing here?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Waiting for someone, obviously"

Sherlock shifted and something caught the DI's eyes. Sherlock was holding a single red rose. Okay, something was up. Greg took a good look at Sherlock. He was wearing his best suit with that odd purple shirt that he miraculously pulled off, one of his legs kept jumping up and down, his hands were shaking a bit, and his hair looked as if he actually tried to tame it. Lestrade was no expert, but he knew exactly what was going on.

"Someone special?"

"Ah, so you're not as stupid as the rest of the Yard. Congrats, you are correct. It is a significant other."

"I didn't know you were into… well, felt… you know…" Lestrade was lost for words. He wasn't sure what to call it. Or what Sherlock would call it. Probably something that sounded scientific or clinical, knowing him.

Sherlock made a sound of irritation, "Lestrade, you're being dull and please stop mumbling. You do know how I have that. And, yes, I do have romantic feelings towards a girl. It may surprise you, that I do, in fact, have a heart."

"I'm not saying you didn't… you know what, never mind," He threw his hands up in a way that said 'chill'. "Might I ask who this 'significant other' is?"

Sherlock's face soften and he smiled a little crooked smile. This is a face Lestrade has never seen on this man's face before. It seemed almost… human.

"Her name is Rosie."

"Oh," Lestrade said with a surprise and sat next to Sherlock on the bench. "How come I've never seen her? Or heard about her before?"

"I haven't seen her in 10 years, 3 months, and 11 days."

Greg said a silent 'oh', and then his face screwed up in confusion. "Where has she been?"

The dark haired man's face turned sour as if he had just eaten a lemon. "Witness protection program. She had to move to America. Even when she could come back, she had to stay in Dublin for a month. Damn regulations."

Wait. Witness protection? That was for people who were being hunted down! Who the hell was this Rosie? Well, then again this is Sherlock Holmes we were talking about...

Sherlock must of seen the look on the older man's face because he sighed and said, "Care for me to explain?"

**Like I said, first fanfic so bare with me. Any constructive criticism or complements would be nice. No hate though.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hey. So. Yeah. Theres not much to say other than I HAVE NO IDEA HOW TO POST A NEW CHAPTER. But now I know so it's all cool.**

XxXxXxX

It was the first week of June and Sherlock had finally finished his senior year and was spending his last summer before Uni at the Holmes' manor in the country. He had just gotten into a row with Mycroft, who was also staying for the summer, and had stormed out the house with steam practically pouring of his ears. He no longer remembers what the argument was. He was just happy it happened.

He had trudged to the downtown area of the small village and was heading to his usual alley where he went to if he needed to smoke a forbidden cigarette. When he got nearer his secret hiding place, he heard voices and quickly drew back and leaned against the wall to listen to the seemingly innocent conversation.

"I told you, no", this voice was obviously female and over the age of 14 and under the age of 25. It was stern and almost threatening. Maybe even a bit annoyed.

"Come on, doll. Gimme a kiss, wontcha?" Male and middle aged. Drunk, possibly 4-5 pints.

"Get off me, you bastard!" Sherlock heard the woman push him away, but by the sound of the footsteps, he was around 5'9" and 193 lb and she was 5'4" and 122 lb. He would easily be able to hurt her and have his way. Sherlock slowly peeked around the corner.

The man was, indeed a middle aged man. Nice pale yellow button down and black trousers suggest he works somewhere high class, so the city seemed most probable and the gut suggests a sedative job, so office worker. His clothes were wrinkled and stained with beer and grease. He had a white strip around his left ring finger. Divorce. At the bar drinking and now making a pass on a young woman? She left him. He looked over at the young woman, who was around 17. She was wearing a jacket much too heavy for the weather and run-down hiking boots (Odd. The area was pretty flat with not much forest and the nearest nature preserve was 10 miles away). She also had a backpack slung over her right shoulder and her ponytail up in a baseball cap and sunglasses. The sun had set an hour ago.

"What did you call me!", the man picked her up by the collar of her coat so she was on her tip-toes and her backpack slipped off her shoulder. She spit in his face and glared. This made the drunkard very angry. The man growled and violently threw the girl at the wall. Sherlock sprang into action. Right hook, uppercut, kick in between the legs. Quickly shove him down while he was disoriented and pressure point at the base of his neck. An easy kill. Didn't even fight back. Shame, he was hoping for something more exciting. Sherlock got off the unconscious man and looked at the once angry woman. She laid crumpled against a garbage can with a pool of blood forming around her head. The drunkard had thrown her against the wall with much force. The young Holmes ran over to check for a pulse and once he made sure she was still alive, he sent a text to Mycroft to come help. This girl need medical attention now. She had a deep cut on the side of her head cause by when she hit the tin garbage can and was bleeding profusely. He wrapped her head in his scarf to try and stop the bleeding. Sherlock checked her pockets for an identity, but when he found none, he turned to her backpack. He ripped it open and found something strange. Extra clothes, perishables, protein bars, bundles of money, fake ID (Sherlock could spot a fake one from a mile away), blonde hair dye, swiss army knife, and a hat. Putting 2 and 2 together he came to a conclusion. She was a runaway. And judging by the mud on her boots and state of her face, she was a runaway for 3 days now. He found the name "Rosie" scribbled on the inside of the ancient backpack, but found no last name.

Holmes took a good look at "Rosie". She had dark hair that was neither straight nor curly, as if it couldn't decide. She had warm skin and full pink lips. He opened one of her eyes and saw that they were an incredible amber color with hints of hazel. Her hands were long and thin, much like his. Though hers were calloused, unlike his which were littered with scars and splotched with chemical burns from past experiments. His eye wandered to her neck and other open skin. Multiple bruises, minimum one week old. Interesting. He had 6 ideas. 3 were not so good.

A honk pulled him away from his thoughts as sleek black car rolled up and Mycroft jumped out of the drivers seat (No surprise there. It was almost 1am. The chauffeur must be sleeping). He came over and grabbed her legs while Sherlock slung the backpack over his shoulder and put his arms under her armpits. They smoothly maneuvered around the large sleeping man and put her in the backseat. Sherlock also climbed in the back and Mycroft got behind the wheel.

"What did you do this time, brother dear?" Mycroft sounded unamused.

"Nothing. A man tried to harm her. I helped before it got worse."

"Ah. Shall we get her to the hospital then?" inquired Mycroft.

"No."

"What?"

"This girl is a runaway and taking her to the hospital would give away her location. She has been gone for 3 days and it would be a shame for all her hard work to go to waste. Also, I believe she has a good reason to run away but I'm not 100% sure of it so it must wait until she wakes," Sherlock stated as if it was common knowledge. Mycroft simply nodded and started to drive back to the manor.

It was all a bit of a blur after that. Returning home, carrying her in. Opening the door to his mother who looked not the least bit surprised and murmuring something about bringing home strays . The two maids with medical backgrounds lead us up to a guest room telling us to put her on the bed and to leave so they could tend the girl. Returning to his bedroom and thinking about the events that just happened. He then thought of Rosie and the way she talked and held herself with such confidence and bravado. It was not something you found everyday. He then suddenly realized that he never took his smoke, and was no longer needing it.

XxXxXxX

Around 6:30 am, Sherlock gave up thinking, he grabbed his violin and headed to the balcony at the end of the hallway. Outside was warm and the air smelled like dew. The sun was rising the the sky was set ablaze with great strokes of orange and gold. Sherlock took a deep breath in and led his instrument up to his chin and began to play. It was one of his own compositions. It starts out slow and sweet then steadily becomes quicker and more frantic. He had closed his eyes to focus on the piece and had not noticed the drowsy girl, who had heard the beautiful music and had followed it, stumble through the doors of the balcony and now leaning on the doorframe.

After what seemed like eternity, Sherlock dramatically ended his song by sticking his bow upright and the peaceful moment was interrupted by soft clapping. Sherlock, who had his back turned towards the door, spun around and met the amber eyes, now practically glowing in the morning light, of the one and only Rosie, whose head was wrapped in white bandages and was wearing baby pink flannel pajamas.

"You should be resting", stated Sherlock. His voice had not even the slightest bit of actual concern.

"You should respect other's sleep", her voice was rough and a bit agitated. "That was a lovely piece."

Sherlock noted her faint scottish accent , "Thank you. Composed it myself. By the way the name is Sherlock. Would you like to hear another one, Rosie?"

She cocked her head to the side and contorted her face with sudden confusion, "Who?"

"Rosie. Is that not your name?"

She was showing genuine confusion. Sherlock thought about when the man had thrown her against the wall and recalled the horrific sounds it made when it hit the wall. And the trash can. And the ground. Plus the trauma of running away and being threaten by the drunkard, that ought to cause some mental damage.

She must of came to the same conclusion as I did because we said "Amnesia" at the same time. An awkward silence followed to realization.

"Well, damn," the amnesic girl exclaimed, breaking the silence. "I'm a total stranger to everyone, including myself. Ain't that just grand." She seated herself in a nearby lawn chair and rested her head in her hand and let out a sigh.

"I wouldn't say you're a complete stranger," mumbled Sherlock, who was still standing in the same spot and carefully hold his violin as if it was a baby.

That caught her attention. She straightened her back and her warm eyes sparked with a flame of sudden excitement. "What do you know?"

Sherlock scoffed, "I don't know. I observe," he walked over to the chair parallel to Rosie's and folded his hands under his chin. Her fiery eyes never lost contact with his cool mercury ones.

"Well, go at it", the amnesic girl reclines and stares intently at Sherlock, her eyes full of hunger for answers.

Sherlock took a deep breath. He was going to need it. "Your accent is mixed. I'd say scottish, but it's too faint and it's got a bit of cockney. I believe that you spent part of your childhood in Scotland, but then moved and lived in London for 6 years. That enough time to affect your speech. Although your physical appearance does not match. Your skin is too naturally tan to be a native. Either one of your parents is of spanish descent, or you moved to Scotland as a babe. Moving along. Your family is not financially sound. Your clothing were at least 3 years old and they were constantly repaired and stitched up. By you, I believe. The stitches were made by a seamstress without much experience and you have small punctures on your hand, presumably made from a sewing needle slipping and stabbing yourself. Also on your hands, there are callouses made from holding a pencil. (by now he had taken one of her hands to examine more closely) Drawing. There are lead stains on the side hand, obviously from constantly swiping your hand along a freshly drawn on paper to remove eraser shavings and there is also different kinds of lead, so, drawing it is." Sherlock dropped her hand and felt a bit disappointed. He wished there was more to tell, but this girl was an absolute mystery other than what he had just said. Not very impressive on his part.

"Wow. Thats… fantastic. Absolutely incredible. I may have amnesia, but I know people aren't so… wow."

Sherlock looked at her with shock. "You really think so?"

"Totally. It's amazing."

"Well, that's not what people usually say."

"What do they usually say?"

"Piss off."

Rosie went into a giggle fit. Sherlock couldn't help but start chuckling. It went for a couple minutes until their sides hurt and a cough interrupted there nice moment. Mycroft was standing behind Rosie with an unamused look on his face. He looked impeccable, he practically was the British government and must always look his best.

"Good morning. I am pleased to see you are well, Miss…"

"Mycroft, she has amnesia due to the traumatic events that have recently happened, so don't try to get any information from her," he snapped.

Rosie glared at him, "Sherlock don't be rude to the man. He was just trying to be polite." She got up to formally greet Mycroft. "It's a pleasure to meet you Mycroft. I do know my name, thanks to Sherlock. My name is apparently Rosie."

"Oh no, the pleasure is mine. I am Sherlock's older brother," Mycroft clapped his hand together and smiled a host like smile, " Now, may we go to the dining room for breakfast? There are things to sort out."

It was the first week of June and Sherlock had finally finished his senior year and was spending his last summer before Uni at the Holmes' manor in the country. He had just gotten into a row with Mycroft, who was also staying for the summer, and had stormed out the house with steam practically pouring of his ears. He no longer remembers what the argument was. He was just happy it happened.

He had trudged to the downtown area of the small village and was heading to his usual alley where he went to if he needed to smoke a forbidden cigarette. When he got nearer his secret hiding place, he heard voices and quickly drew back and leaned against the wall to listen to the seemingly innocent conversation.

"I told you, no", this voice was obviously female and over the age of 14 and under the age of 25. It was stern and almost threatening. Maybe even a bit annoyed.

"Come on, doll. Gimme a kiss, wontcha?" Male and middle aged. Drunk, possibly 4-5 pints.

"Get off me, you bastard!" Sherlock heard the woman push him away, but by the sound of the footsteps, he was around 5'9" and 193 lb and she was 5'4" and 122 lb. He would easily be able to hurt her and have his way. Sherlock slowly peeked around the corner.

The man was, indeed a middle aged man. Nice pale yellow button down and black trousers suggest he works somewhere high class, so the city seemed most probable and the gut suggests a sedative job, so office worker. His clothes were wrinkled and stained with beer and grease. He had a white strip around his left ring finger. Divorce. At the bar drinking and now making a pass on a young woman? She left him. He looked over at the young woman, who was around 17. She was wearing a jacket much too heavy for the weather and run-down hiking boots (Odd. The area was pretty flat with not much forest and the nearest nature preserve was 10 miles away). She also had a backpack slung over her right shoulder and her ponytail up in a baseball cap and sunglasses. The sun had set an hour ago.

"What did you call me!", the man picked her up by the collar of her coat so she was on her tip-toes and her backpack slipped off her shoulder. She spit in his face and glared. This made the drunkard very angry. The man growled and violently threw the girl at the wall. Sherlock sprang into action. Right hook, uppercut, kick in between the legs. Quickly shove him down while he was disoriented and pressure point at the base of his neck. An easy kill. Didn't even fight back. Shame, he was hoping for something more exciting. Sherlock got off the unconscious man and looked at the once angry woman. She laid crumpled against a garbage can with a pool of blood forming around her head. The drunkard had thrown her against the wall with much force. The young Holmes ran over to check for a pulse and once he made sure she was still alive, he sent a text to Mycroft to come help. This girl need medical attention now. She had a deep cut on the side of her head cause by when she hit the tin garbage can and was bleeding profusely. He wrapped her head in his scarf to try and stop the bleeding. Sherlock checked her pockets for an identity, but when he found none, he turned to her backpack. He ripped it open and found something strange. Extra clothes, perishables, protein bars, bundles of money, fake ID (Sherlock could spot a fake one from a mile away), blonde hair dye, swiss army knife, and a hat. Putting 2 and 2 together he came to a conclusion. She was a runaway. And judging by the mud on her boots and state of her face, she was a runaway for 3 days now. He found the name "Rosie" scribbled on the inside of the ancient backpack, but found no last name.

Holmes took a good look at "Rosie". She had dark hair that was neither straight nor curly, as if it couldn't decide. She had warm skin and full pink lips. He opened one of her eyes and saw that they were an incredible amber color with hints of hazel. Her hands were long and thin, much like his. Though hers were calloused, unlike his which were littered with scars and splotched with chemical burns from past experiments. His eye wandered to her neck and other open skin. Multiple bruises, minimum one week old. Interesting. He had 6 ideas. 3 were not so good.

A honk pulled him away from his thoughts as sleek black car rolled up and Mycroft jumped out of the drivers seat (No surprise there. It was almost 1am. The chauffeur must be sleeping). He came over and grabbed her legs while Sherlock slung the backpack over his shoulder and put his arms under her armpits. They smoothly maneuvered around the large sleeping man and put her in the backseat. Sherlock also climbed in the back and Mycroft got behind the wheel.

"What did you do this time, brother dear?" Mycroft sounded unamused.

"Nothing. A man tried to harm her. I helped before it got worse."

"Ah. Shall we get her to the hospital then?" inquired Mycroft.

"No."

"What?"

"This girl is a runaway and taking her to the hospital would give away her location. She has been gone for 3 days and it would be a shame for all her hard work to go to waste. Also, I believe she has a good reason to run away but I'm not 100% sure of it so it must wait until she wakes," Sherlock stated as if it was common knowledge. Mycroft simply nodded and started to drive back to the manor.

It was all a bit of a blur after that. Returning home, carrying her in. Opening the door to his mother who looked not the least bit surprised and murmuring something about bringing home strays . The two maids with medical backgrounds lead us up to a guest room telling us to put her on the bed and to leave so they could tend the girl. Returning to his bedroom and thinking about the events that just happened. He then thought of Rosie and the way she talked and held herself with such confidence and bravado. It was not something you found everyday. He then suddenly realized that he never took his smoke, and was no longer needing it.

XxXxXxX

Around 6:30 am, Sherlock gave up thinking, he grabbed his violin and headed to the balcony at the end of the hallway. Outside was warm and the air smelled like dew. The sun was rising the the sky was set ablaze with great strokes of orange and gold. Sherlock took a deep breath in and led his instrument up to his chin and began to play. It was one of his own compositions. It starts out slow and sweet then steadily becomes quicker and more frantic. He had closed his eyes to focus on the piece and had not noticed the drowsy girl, who had heard the beautiful music and had followed it, stumble through the doors of the balcony and now leaning on the doorframe.

After what seemed like eternity, Sherlock dramatically ended his song by sticking his bow upright and the peaceful moment was interrupted by soft clapping. Sherlock, who had his back turned towards the door, spun around and met the amber eyes, now practically glowing in the morning light, of the one and only Rosie, whose head was wrapped in white bandages and was wearing baby pink flannel pajamas.

"You should be resting", stated Sherlock. His voice had not even the slightest bit of actual concern.

"You should respect other's sleep", her voice was rough and a bit agitated. "That was a lovely piece."

Sherlock noted her faint scottish accent , "Thank you. Composed it myself. By the way the name is Sherlock. Would you like to hear another one, Rosie?"

She cocked her head to the side and contorted her face with sudden confusion, "Who?"

"Rosie. Is that not your name?"

She was showing genuine confusion. Sherlock thought about when the man had thrown her against the wall and recalled the horrific sounds it made when it hit the wall. And the trash can. And the ground. Plus the trauma of running away and being threaten by the drunkard, that ought to cause some mental damage.

She must of came to the same conclusion as I did because we said "Amnesia" at the same time. An awkward silence followed to realization.

"Well, damn," the amnesic girl exclaimed, breaking the silence. "I'm a total stranger to everyone, including myself. Ain't that just grand." She seated herself in a nearby lawn chair and rested her head in her hand and let out a sigh.

"I wouldn't say you're a complete stranger," mumbled Sherlock, who was still standing in the same spot and carefully hold his violin as if it was a baby.

That caught her attention. She straightened her back and her warm eyes sparked with a flame of sudden excitement. "What do you know?"

Sherlock scoffed, "I don't know. I observe," he walked over to the chair parallel to Rosie's and folded his hands under his chin. Her fiery eyes never lost contact with his cool mercury ones.

"Well, go at it", the amnesic girl reclines and stares intently at Sherlock, her eyes full of hunger for answers.

Sherlock took a deep breath. He was going to need it. "Your accent is mixed. I'd say scottish, but it's too faint and it's got a bit of cockney. I believe that you spent part of your childhood in Scotland, but then moved and lived in London for 6 years. That enough time to affect your speech. Although your physical appearance does not match. Your skin is too naturally tan to be a native. Either one of your parents is of spanish descent, or you moved to Scotland as a babe. Moving along. Your family is not financially sound. Your clothing were at least 3 years old and they were constantly repaired and stitched up. By you, I believe. The stitches were made by a seamstress without much experience and you have small punctures on your hand, presumably made from a sewing needle slipping and stabbing yourself. Also on your hands, there are callouses made from holding a pencil. (by now he had taken one of her hands to examine more closely) Drawing. There are lead stains on the side hand, obviously from constantly swiping your hand along a freshly drawn on paper to remove eraser shavings and there is also different kinds of lead, so, drawing it is." Sherlock dropped her hand and felt a bit disappointed. He wished there was more to tell, but this girl was an absolute mystery other than what he had just said. Not very impressive on his part.

"Wow. Thats… fantastic. Absolutely incredible. I may have amnesia, but I know people aren't so… wow."

Sherlock looked at her with shock. "You really think so?"

"Totally. It's amazing."

"Well, that's not what people usually say."

"What do they usually say?"

"Piss off."

Rosie went into a giggle fit. Sherlock couldn't help but start chuckling. It went for a couple minutes until their sides hurt and a cough interrupted there nice moment. Mycroft was standing behind Rosie with an unamused look on his face. He looked impeccable, he practically was the British government and must always look his best.

"Good morning. I am pleased to see you are well, Miss…"

"Mycroft, she has amnesia due to the traumatic events that have recently happened, so don't try to get any information from her," he snapped.

Rosie glared at him, "Sherlock don't be rude to the man. He was just trying to be polite." She got up to formally greet Mycroft. "It's a pleasure to meet you Mycroft. I do know my name, thanks to Sherlock. My name is apparently Rosie."

"Oh no, the pleasure is mine. I am Sherlock's older brother," Mycroft clapped his hand together and smiled a host like smile, " Now, may we go to the dining room for breakfast? There are things to sort out."

XxXxXxX

**Please give me advice 'cause I feel like I'm doing this completely wrong. Okay. Umm... bye.**

**(can't you tell I'm horrible at one-way conversations?)**


	3. Chapter 3

**Hey! What is up? And that my friends is my attempt to communicate with you. **

XxXxXxX

They sat in the kitchen (they found that sitting at an abnormally large dining table will certainly not do) and the trio were served tea and toast with blueberry jam. An awkward silence fell upon them until Mycroft finally spoke up.

"I have called in a private doctor to look at your head injury. Oh, don't worry Sherlock. It's completely confidential so they won't give away her location. After we know how long the memory lose will last we will-"

"Wait," Rosie said with sudden confusion, her eyes switching back and forth from Sherlock to Mycroft accusingly. "What do you mean by 'give away her location'? Am I in trouble?"

Mycroft shook his head. "It's nothing like that. According to Sherlock, you were running away from home before you were attacked and lost your memory. I believe once we know your true identity, we will be able to find out the cause of your… escaping."

"Oh. Well then. The attack explains the head injury and the bruises and cuts."

Sherlock coughs, "The bruises and cuts are much too old to be from yesterday night."

"What do you mean?"

"What I'm saying is that those injuries are from an attack at least 5 days ago. There are others that are older too. And based on the patterns and the lack of signs of resistance, I'd say they are due to domestic abuse."

Silence.

"Um," Rosie looked highly uncomfortable. "I think… I'll just, um. I need some fresh air." She set down her mug and quickly got up and left, banging into the table on the way out. Sherlock seemed unmoved, Mycroft glared at him. Sherlock took a sip of his tea and looked up at his older brother.

"What?"

"Oh, you know exactly what."

"She was going to find out one way or another."

"Well, yes, but that was a bit harsh. The poor girl must be terrified by now. Go apologize."

"Apologize?"

"Yes. Now go find her and say sorry."

Sherlock groaned, but Mycroft's intimidating glare made him finally gave in. The brother smirked as Sherlock got up and stomped out of the kitchen to find the amnesiac.

After quickly deducting where she went, he found her on the same balcony she found Sherlock this morning. She was leaning over the railing, staring off to some imaginary land. The few hairs not restricted by the bandage danced in the slight morning breeze. He noticed her muscular physique and how the loose camisole suited her quite nicely even though the baby pink contradicted the rest of her fierce look. She was, in fact, attractive. 'Wait, did I just think that?' Sherlock's thought had puzzled himself profoundly.

"How did you figure that out, Sherlock?" She must of sensed his presence because she didn't turn around. Her voice was quiet, as if she was scared someone might hear.

He walked over and stood next to Rosie. She still did not move.

"I know those bruise patterns."

"They could have been from a two-way fight or an accident. How did you know those bruises were from domestic abuse?"

"Because I have them, too."

Rosie's head whipped around and silently stared at the curly haired boy, waiting for proof. Sherlock, mentally getting the message, began to pull at his shirt and untucked it from his jeans. He lifted his shirt to reveal scars and odd looking yellow spots. Rosie quietly erected her stature and looked at him straight in the eye. Her amber orbs were dancing with sadness and unknown understanding.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. The vulgar man is long gone. Also, Mycroft have similar ones, although I have more. He especially did not enjoy my presence. Said I was weird and too intelligent. Called me a fag when he found out I played the violin. 'A woman's instrument' he would call it. He would hit me when I broke something or when I would deduce about him. It was absolutely terrible when I found out about his affair…"

Sherlock faltered. Why was he telling this stranger his life story? This is not like Sherlock. Not at all like him. But… there was just something about her...

"It's fine if you don't want to tell the rest."

"Okay."

Silence. Again. This is becoming something common between the two. They continue staring quite dramatically off to a distance until Sherlock broke the almost visible tension between the two.

"UmMycrofttoldmetoapologizesoI'msorry."

"Excuse me?"

"I'm sorry for being rude." Sherlock practically whispered. He was looking down at his hands. He had the resemblance of a 5 year old. This amused Rosie greatly.

"What?

"Nothing, it's just, your face," she said beginning to laugh. It was so odd. Her laugh. He couldn't help but laugh a second time today. And, also for the second time today, Mycroft interrupted their moment. This time with a text.

Tell Rosie that the Doctor is here to see her -MH

XxXxXxX

**Sorry it's short. I just thought it was a good place to stop.**


End file.
